Journal of Sam Wilson
by Mel Morganne
Summary: As Sam struggles with 'normal' life after his time in the army, his sister gives him this journal. Hesitant about the idea at first, he soon realizes it's a good outlet for his thoughts and emotions as he adjusts to living in New York, moving to Washington and meeting some people that are about to change his life forever.
1. Prologue

**Author's Note:** Hey all! After rewatching The Winter Soldier I was really intrigued by Sam Wilson's character and his story. I started scribbling down some ideas which turned into this journal-esque story. It starts sometime after he left the army (which I put into the MCU timeline just before the Battle of New York) and continues through the events of The Winter Soldier and when he joins the Avengers.

This story will be dealing with a lot of angst and heavy stuff like PTSD, depression and suicide so please be warned. I will try and keep it balanced with some lighter fluff as well though. Also there is a fair amount of language but I try and keep it at the same level as the movies themselves.

I'd also like to mention that I have not read any Marvel Comics so my inspiration comes from the movies only and some random Wiki searches for background info. But a lot of this is my headcanon or inspired from other things.

So enjoy and please let me know what you think! Reviews are welcome!

M :)


	2. Entry 1

Entry Log: 1  
Date: Thursday, April 5, 2012  
Location: Sarah's house, Harlem, New York City

* * *

So . . . . . . yeah, that's basically all I got. Never been much for writing shit down. Hell, I even made Riley fill out any paperwork or forms that needed to be done. If I could avoid holding a pen in my hand, I was happy. And here I am, staring at a blank piece of paper.

Why? Ha, that's a damn good question. An easy one to answer, but a lot harder to explain. Basically, Sarah (my sister) got fed up with me moping around her place and trying to drink myself into oblivion. In her usual direct and cruel fashion she collected all my booze, poured it down the sink and gave me this journal. "Write your thoughts in here," she told me. "Don't try and drown them in alcohol."

So again, here I am, sitting on this rickety old chair on her front porch, stone-cold sober unfortunately, and still with no idea of what to write. And let me get one thing straight - this is not some girly diary or whatever they call that shit. This is a soldier's, well ex-soldier's and ex-gang member's, journal. Not glittery and pink and covered in unicorns and rainbows but a dark hell-hole that you really don't want to get into. Because once you're in, there's no escape. It stays with you forever, whether it's in your nightmares or sometimes in the middle of a day as you get sucked into a flashback. As I found out, not even drinking is the answer. It's only a temporary fix, because once you wake up, the memories are still there. Not to mention that now you've also got a hell of a headache and are feeling as miserable as shit. Mentally and physically.

It's funny how they never talk about this part. It's all about the heroics and patriotism. It's all about bravery and courage and never giving up. Because all that sounds really good and looks really pretty too on some damn poster. And sure there are moments like those. I'd be lying if I said I didn't enjoy my time in the army, at least some of it. But they don't tell you that the initial feeling of heroism eventually begins to wear out. And that it's slowly replaced by feelings of fear and guilt and shame and anxiety and a terrible loneliness that just sucks the life right out of your soul. And why would they talk about this? Who wants to know about seasoned army veterans waking up in the middle of the night and crying like little babies? Or who turn to the bottle or drugs in an effort to not fall asleep and fall prey to the inner demons that wake up at night? Because I'm sure that'll look sexy as hell on a propaganda poster. "Join the army! If you're lucky enough to survive you'll wish you hadn't!"

The worst part is that the army itself doesn't give a damn. If you're young and healthy and willing to fight they'll take care of you alright. But after? Hell naw. They send you back home with a cold wave before turning away to welcome new recruits with open arms. So much for camaraderie. They pretend they care; there's even a Department of Veteran Affairs or some shit but is there anybody who will take the time to listen to someone who doesn't want to talk?

I guess I should consider myself lucky that my sister was willing to put me up and deal with my bullshit, in her own fashion anyway. Speaking of which, I promised I'd pick up my niece and nephew from school and take them to the park and I should probably get going. And looks like I managed to fill up an entire page with words! Do I feel better? Not really. Just really mad at the hypocrisy of the army and a terrible sadness at what life is like for those who return home, myself included.


	3. Entry 2

Entry Log: 2  
Date: Friday, April 6, 2012  
Place: Sarah's, Harlem, NYC

* * *

Back on the front porch. If I continue like this my ass is going to wear a hole in this chair. Though I doubt my sister will let me stay that long. She's great, don't get me wrong, but more of a tough-love kind of older sister. Eight years older than me, we've never been really close. She was off to college when I was still in primary school and I never saw much of her. And joining up with a local gang didn't exactly make us any closer. It wasn't till I joined the army that I tried to straighten my life out a bit. We exchanged the lone Christmas card every December but that was about it.

I'll never admit it to her, but I'm proud of her. She was smart enough to focus in school and do well in her classes. Me? I had a reputation of being a heavy-hitter brawler. As a black kid growing up in Harlem you quickly learned to either keep your head down or your fists up. And I've never had the sense to stay away from a fight. Sarah did though. She even managed to get a scholarship that allowed her to go to college and become a kindergarten teacher. Now she's back in Harlem, working at a local school down the road.

Her husband works for the city as a garbage collector. Nothing fancy, but at least it's honest work and they're doing well by their kids. In a way they're the real heroes. The folks back home who get up every day and make sure the country is still running and that their kids will have a decent future.

My niece and nephew are adorable. Chad is 8 and Aida is 5 and they're two crazy balls of energy. At the park yesterday they tried to catch a squirrel because they wanted a pet. Thank goodness that little bugger was too fast for them. I love watching them play, as I'm supposed to be doing right now while Sarah's gone grocery shopping. Aida is digging up worms and making little beds of dirt and grass for them. Poor bastards. And Chad is riding his old bike up and down the street. If he tries to jump the curb one more time that bent and battered frame is going to fall apart. They're so pure and innocent. Reminds me that there is some good in this world and it's not all blood and bullets, darkness and death.

And for a brief second I think that I too could have something like this. A house to come home to, a family to love and take care of. But then I look at my hands and I see that they're stained red with blood. The metallic tang of blood and fear fills my mouth and the dying screams of my mates echoes in my ears. And I know that there's no damn way that I'll ever have anything resembling normal. What does normal mean to a guy who can't sleep in a bed but lies down on the hard floor instead? To a guy who can't walk down a street without checking for IED's and snipers and flinches at every sudden sound?

Naw, normal is a bit too much to ask for. I'll settle with sleeping through one night without nightmares. Or being able to grill something on the barbecue without throwing up because of the smell of burnt meat. Or seeing the colour red without thinking of blood, or yellow without fire, or silver without bullets.

Man, that's some depressive shit. And I'm supposed to, what do they call it, "reintegrate myself into society", after I just wrote that? Hell naw.


	4. Entry 3

Entry Log: 3  
Date: Monday, April 9, 2012  
Place: Sarah's, Harlem, NYC

* * *

Besides getting me to write in this damn journal, Sarah's also decided to drag me with her to the neighbourhood's Community Centre/Soup Kitchen and whatever else. Which is where I was all weekend. "It's important to give back to the community," she told me in that really annoying, older-sister voice that thinks she's the smartest and best.

I have given back the community, sister dear, thank you very much. Two damn tours' worth with the Air Force! And not just as a regular paratrooper, I was with the rescue squadron, saving the asses of America's precious children that she just shipped off to get killed. I think it's time for the community to take care of me.

But as usual, Sarah just ignored me and told me the experience would be good for me. Ha, yeah right. Because serving soup to a bunch of homeless people beside an old lady who won't shut up about her cat and then proceeds to scald me with boiling soup because she can't hold a ladle without her hand trembling is real good experience. My right hand is a lovely shade of red-tinged chocolate now. I can't even hold this damn pen straight.

So that's how I spent my weekend: serving soup, doing dishes and then cleaning up things around the centre, including trying to fix a few draughty windows. Which resulted in me hitting my left thumb with the hammer. So now both my hands hurt.

The experience just left me in a fouler mood than my current state of soberness is putting me in. Harlem's never had a good reputation but to see people like my sister and brother-in-law who are just making ends meet to raise their family then give up their weekends to help others even worse off is not at all heartening to me. It's sickening. Harlem's residents, already poor enough, have to rely on each other to make it through, rather than the government actually trying to do something that works.

I mean I should know what the shit end of Harlem looks like. Spent a good eight or so years roaming the streets and back alleys. I don't want to know the rest of my classmates from back then are doing know. That's if they're still alive. I don't know what the statistics are for black kids from Harlem being able to make a living on the right side of the law but I'm sure it's not a good number. I know I was definitely not the only who turned to the seeming protection and security that a gang offered young teenagers who thought they had no real place in the world.

I guess I should be happy I was given a chance to get out of that downward spiralling cesspool before it killed me off too. Naw, I managed to get out, join the army and find myself in a different cesspool that has also managed to ruin my life. Yay me.

I vaguely remember being so happy when I joined the army. I figured I was going straight for once, that I'd finally made a good choice. I thought I could be able to make a difference in this world and actually do something that matters. I even imagined that my parents would've been proud of me. Do I regret it? If I were to be truly honest with myself, no. Like I said before, it wasn't all bad. And I had Riley. But now . . . now I have nothing but my own miserable thoughts haunting me every second and trying to convince me that I'd be better off joining my wingman. It's tempting, damn tempting sometimes.


	5. Entry 4

Entry Log: 4  
Date: Wednesday, April 11, 2012  
Place: Random coffee shop, Harlem, NYC

* * *

Needed to get out of the house today and decided to bring this little thing with me at the last minute. The house is too quiet with everyone gone at work or school. I can't stand quiet places anymore. Make me about to go crazy. It somehow feels off when there's no gunfire somewhere in the background.

So here I am, sitting in a small coffee shop at a corner table drinking coffee (with no liquor added) and writing in a journal like some university nerd or crazy-ass writer. I covertly look around me and shrink back further into the corner. No way in hell that I want anyone who might know me to see me like this.

Not that being at the butt-end of some poorly contrived jokes would be anything new to me. Like I've said, I had a rep for using my fists all throughout school. I never started it though. Always some ass-faced white kid that was feeling particularly pretentious on any given day. I mean it may have partly been my fault. Who wouldn't feel their supposed superiority threatened when they see this hella handsome face in front of them?

Things started to change as a gang member. Of course now society looked at me as if I had justified all their preconceived stereotypes. All that anger that I had managed to keep slightly bottled while I was still in school, mainly in respect (and fear) of Ma, now just burst out. This time I did start the fights, and not a small number. Until a particular trip to the local jail ended with me walking out a different door than before.

Then in the army it was back to the same old shit, except that they hid it a lot better. The white brats were really good at excluding everyone who they didn't deem worthy to hang out with them.

Funny how some eyes can be so blinded by skin colour that they don't notice that everyone's blood flows red. I should know. I've seen people of all shades and colours bleed out in front of me. Always the same colour. Black or white, friend or enemy, it's always the same red. Also funny that in a place where all humanity is lost it's made obviously clear that we are all humans.

I don't even know why I bring this up, it's not like my little rant here is going to make a difference. Racism is unfortunately only obvious to those suffering from it and I'd have more luck convincing Sarah to buy me a case of beer than get a white guy to believe racism still exists in this beautiful, free country of ours. And would a white guy actual belief what I'm writing down here? Hell naw - America's true history is apparently only written by the palest of hands. Ours is written in sweat and blood and tears. Things that don't make a lasting mark on paper but they damn sure do in our hearts.

I'm about to throw this pen across the room because writing is just making me pissed. Don't know what go into me when I brought this along. Stupid decision. This is not helping me release my thoughts, Sarah dear, this is fuelling an inner rage that is about to explode. And that overflowing trash can just outside the coffee shop looks like the perfect place to ditch this stupid thing.


	6. Entry 5

Entry Log: 5  
Date: Sunday, April 15, 2012  
Place: Community Centre, Harlem, NYC

* * *

Guess I slipped the journal into my jacket pocket and not the trash can because I just found it in my jacket pocket during a rare minute to myself at the Community Centre. Had an interesting conversation with a guy that came in and suddenly felt like writing it down.

He was in his fifties and still looked healthy. Strong too, judging by his stocky body build. He had a rough beard that was streaked with grey, just like his hair. When I passed him his bowl of soup, I noticed a familiar tattoo in the dark skin on his wrist. Military man.

He was still sitting by himself when I was going around the room cleaning up the tables so I sat beside him for a moment. He looked at me with an expression that almost scared me. Even with all the shit I'd seen in the army, I'd never seen eyes that looked so lost.

"Good soup." He'd said in a toneless voice.

"Probably because I'm not allowed in the kitchen. I just serve it."

"Well give my thanks to your cook."

"Will do. You served?"

He looked up at me at the point. "Navy SEAL. Almost fifteen years. You?"

"Damn. That's some hardcore shit. 58th Pararescue. Two tours in Afghanistan."

"Ha. Walk in the park, I bet. And now you're still trying to be a hero, huh? Serving soup to poor bastards who couldn't keep it together like you pretty ladies."

"A walk in the park? Man, you have no idea what the hell you're talking about. Don't think you know me."

"Keep it chill, girly. You did what, two tours and then wanted out? Got a nice little retirement bonus and went back to your comfortable bed in your family's house? Now you're sipping on morning coffee and still being the good guy on weekends. Do you know what it's like to be discharged because your mental armour's starting to crack? To come home and have your family kick you out because you've "changed"? To be refused a job because they think you've got issues? To wander around from soup kitchen to soup kitchen till you've had enough and put a bullet in your head?"

The man slammed his empty bowl on the table and left, leaving me staring after him. I do know, I wanted to call after him, but just stared in silence. It was the first time I'd actually heard a former military guy talk so openly. Sure, they gave us all the briefing on PTSD and some numbers for a good shrink to call, but that was it. Hearing this guy talk was hella scary - he was almost describing my life. Did my eyes reflect that hopeless look I saw in his? I suddenly realized that I didn't want to end up like that. Bit of a wake-up call.


	7. Entry 6

Entry Log: 6  
Date: Monday, April 16, 2012  
Place: Sarah's, Harlem, NYC

* * *

Speaking of wake-up calls, heard on the news that someone else just got one. Apparently some science research team digging around in the Arctic just found a 70-year old frozen dude. Alive. Name's Steve Rogers - apparently some big hero in WWII they called Captain America. More like Captain Icicle now. Capsicle. Ha, I like that.

The news is having a field day. There's a sudden surge of patriotism and the public is gobbling it up like a flock of starving chickens. TV channels are bringing up old war footage talking about the courage, bravery and heroism of American soldiers and all that shit. I just watched a documentary about the Howling Commandos, the Captain's elite combat unit, and if it weren't for the odd group photo that they showed briefly, you'd never know that one of the members was a black guy. Had to Google him to find out who he was - Gabe Jones, former private with the 92nd Infantry (an all black unit to boot). Also the only one on the team who had a completed university degree - a Bachelor's in French and German from Howard U. Mildly important skills in WWII that I bet were quite helpful to the team but nobody bothers to mention that.

So here everybody is, talking about some white guy hero who I'm sure is getting gold star treatment while a black, ex-Navy SEAL is wandering around New York with no one to turn to, thinking about killing himself to get out of his misery. I don't even now this Cap guy and I already dislike him. Probably some straight-laced asshole who thinks he's better than everyone else.

Army recruitment is having a great time too I bet. Seems like even back in the day, Cap's first job was to recruit soldiers. Wonder if they'll use him again like some US Army poster boy. It's not that hard trying to convince impressionable young men and women that they too can be a hero.

But will there be anyone there for them when they suddenly realize that being a hero comes with a shitload of side baggage? Will there be someone at their side in the middle of the night when they wake up screaming and sweating from another nightmare? Someone to hold their hand as they get overwhelmed in a crowd filled with too many noises and smells and bright colours? Someone to tell them that your physical injuries might heal but not the mental ones? Someone who can take away some of the loneliness and helplessness in their eyes? Someone who can give them a reason to live again?

A reason to live - is that what I'm looking for? After Riley . . . I left the army because I had a really hard time finding a reason for being over there. Did I really think that I could find it back here? In a world that no longer feels like home, and never really was, to be honest about it. A world that's moved on without me while I struggle to accept the changes that I've gone through.

Makes me think about what would go through Cap's mind as he steps into Times Square for the first time. Talk about a world that's moved on without him and no longer feels like home. Why would I even care though? Apparently I've got enough shit of my own to try and work through. Could really use a drink right now.


	8. Entry 7

Entry Log: 7  
Date: Wednesday, April 18, 2012  
Place: Coffee shop again

* * *

Damn this stuff tastes foul! I need to find a coffee shop that doesn't use sewage water or something. Drank worse stuff in the army though. But then when you're finally back from another mission, exhausted from being up for over 48 hours and sore to the point of barely being able to walk, you don't really care what you eat as long as you can chew and swallow it. Tastes buds don't function at that point anyway.

What I wrote Monday . . . a reason to live . . . keeps coming back to me. Am I really at the stage that I'm ready to just end it? There are moments, hell there are many moments, when the thought crosses my mind, just briefly. And then I find myself in the park, playing with Chad and Aida and feeling the warm sunshine on my face and I'm happy for a moment, just as brief. It's this constant pendulum that I desperately want to stop. Will I ever be able to regain some kind of balance?

The rest of the time I'm just mad. Borderline pissed. Like I said before, anger management hasn't ever been one of my strong suits. The strict discipline in the army kept me in line, more or less. But now I have way too much time on my hands. Time to look around me and get mad. Time to think about things and get even more mad.

Why is this coffee so disgusting? Maybe because this is Harlem and it's hard to get any kind of business up off the ground when you're customers are in the same poor state as you. Maybe because nobody would even consider investing any money here since money tends to circulate where the money already is. Maybe the gaunt looking lady can't afford a new coffee machine, or better plumbing, because any money earned goes directly into feeding her family.

So first I'm angry about my poor excuse of a coffee, then the entire damn system for making it this way, and then at myself for being mad about the coffee when I really don't have a right to.

Changing subjects to that Navy SEAL vet, why did he get so mad at me? Sure the SEALs have never been too fond of any other division, but why did he just blow up in my face? Maybe because he's given everything he's had for his country and gotten nothing in return. Maybe because nobody understands him, or what he's going through, and nobody really cares either. Maybe because deep inside he's lonely and afraid but would never admit that to anybody so he covers it with anger.

And now I'm still angry at the system, even more so. The army, the government, whatever. And at people who couldn't give a damn to spare a few seconds of their precious live to help, or to just listen. And most of all at myself because I'm realizing that maybe my anger is a cover too. But I don't want to know what's underneath. I've had fists balled and ready to fight since I was a little kid and there's no damn way I'm breaking down that wall that I've built up.

I can't do this. The anger, the . . . the whatever else is there is making me about to explode. I need to get out of here, need to run. Run until the pounding feet and dripping sweat bring me back to myself.


	9. Entry 8

Entry Log: 8  
Date: Friday, April 20, 2012  
Place: Sarah's, Harlem, NYC

* * *

Despite my brave words, it happened. Completely broke down and spent a good few hours out right bawling on Sarah's shoulder. It's 2am now and I've calmed down a bit. Enough to think and write.

The past few days I was so angry I even started snapping at Chad and Aidan. I can see clearly now how much of a cover it was. A cover to prevent myself from admitting my true feelings. Finally Sarah couldn't take it anymore. I was sitting on my bed, staring blankly at the wall and a destroyed pillow in my hand when she came into to my room. I was expecting her to burst into another one of her lectures but she just sat on the bed beside me, took the pillow from me and held my hands.

"I'm not going to pretend to know what you're going through, Sammy, because I don't. But it's tearing me apart seeing you like this and not knowing what I can do to help," she said.

Besides being the only one who's allowed to call me Sammy, she's apparently also the only one who can make me cry. I felt so bad in that moment, not for myself, but for her because I knew that she had already done more than enough to help me but was still not giving up on the messed up piece of shit that I was.

I mumbled something in response and tried to turn away from her but she pulled me closer so that I was sitting beside her. She's surprisingly strong (and ridiculously stubborn).

"Whatever's going on in your head, you are so much more than that. Believe me, Sammy. I know we haven't been super close but I've always been proud of you, and I know you can get through this too."

And then a dam just broke. I started crying and couldn't stop. All that rage and pain and grief needed to be released so badly and I realized that underneath it all lay fear. I, Sam Wilson, seasoned army paratrooper and gang muscle was afraid. Once I finally admitted that myself, I couldn't stop babbling to Sarah.

"I've changed Sarah, and I don't know . . . I don't fit in anymore, and it feels like . . . feels like I can't. I'm . . . I'm scared. Scared of falling asleep and facing my nightmares, scared of waking up and knowing I have no place in the world anymore. Scared of having another person close to me die. First Pa, and Ma and now Riley. I can't take it anymore, Sarah. I'm a mess and and I'm scared I'm gone too far to ever get out of it."

She just held me and let me continue crying. I should have felt ashamed, breaking down like that but I only felt relieved. And vulnerable. My walls were broken, and I was exposed. But in that moment, with Sarah wrapping her arms around my shoulders, I just felt safe and relieved.

"I'm here for you, Sammy. Always. Whatever you're going through, just know that you're not alone and you will always have a home here with us. Even once you figure this out and find your place again in the world, you will always be welcome here."


	10. Entry 9

Entry Log: 9  
Date: Saturday, April 21, 2012  
Place: Community Centre, Harlem, NYC

* * *

I'm exhausted and have got a hell of a headache but for the first time in the almost three months that I've been back home I feel slightly better. Not good yet, not by a long shot, but like things might not be as terrible as I thought and that there is a way out. I'm still a damn mess but I'm just trying to take it one day at a time.

The old cat lady was back today serving soup and she unfortunately caught sight of me before I could hightail it out the door so I was stuck beside her again. I was starting to get really annoyed by her granny voice again but then remembered how Sarah had just sat by my side listened so I tried to do the same. I focused on serving soup and catching her ladle whenever she was about to drop it and just quietly listened to her mindless chatter.

Turns out she had a grandson about my age who served a tour. And things weren't so rosy for him either when he came back. He was able to find a job in construction but began to have panic attacks. Especially the sound of jackhammers would send him off into a state of uncontrollable shaking. That I can understand well. Those things make me flinch real bad every time I hear one so I do my best to stay away from building sites.

Anyways, the grandson was carted off to some psych centre where he was given medication. He tried to OD one night but ended up in the hospital where he was recovering now. Poor kid. As if giving him a shit ton of drugs would make things better. Like the booze for me, it's just a temporary solution.

I want to do something for these people. The kid in the hospital, the SEAL vet walking around somewhere in the streets, and the hundreds of other guys who come home from the army and feel like there life has gone even more to shit. Maybe it'll help me sort through my own problems, get rid of these feelings of guilt. I couldn't do anything to save Riley, but maybe I can help someone else.

I asked the lady in charge of this centre and she said they're always looking for more people to help out with their community programs or just do general maintenance around the place. She also mentioned that there's a few other centres nearby that could all do with the help. It's all volunteer stuff but hell, why not? I've got my discharge bonus from the army that'll get me by for a while and if this can help me get my life on track, it's worth a shot, no? It's a hell of a lot better than drinking myself to an early death.

Wonder what my army boys would say to this. Most of them wouldn't hesitate to bring out the jokes. But if I really think about it, how many of them aren't struggling with something similar? Most joined the army to make a difference. Isn't that what I'm trying to do now? Just without a gun in my hand. I think if there's one thing I've learned so far, it's that I'm not the only one going through this shit. There's always someone else out there who's got the same issues, or at least close enough. Same issues, different manifestations.

My old gang members would have a field day too, seeing me like this. Volunteering in community centres? They'd probably die laughing. I don't care though. I managed to get out of that shit show and I'll do my damnedest to get out of this one now.


	11. Special Entry

Entry Log: Special Entry ;)  
Date:  
Place:

* * *

Sammy,

I hope you don't mind that I'm writing this in your journal. I promise you that I did not read any of it. I just wanted to tell you a few things, things that I wasn't able to tell you on Friday night.

First, I just wanted to repeat how proud I am of you. I know you had a rough go of things after Pa died and especially once Ma was gone. You've always been a fighter and I know that in school you always stood strong and proud. And despite all that you did as a gang member, I know that it could've been a lot worse. And in the end you made the choice to get out, to fight the right fight.

But I've also seen that you're so much more than just a fighter. Behind all that muscle there is a sweet, kind heart. I'm sure you'd be way to embarrassed to admit it but you're a good person, Sammy. I've seen you with Aida and Chad and you're so great with them. I also remember how you used to help old Mrs. Patterson down the street with her gardening. And that night when I was sick with a fever and Ma and Pa weren't here? You stayed up with me all night and kept cooling down my forehead and bringing me water. I'm sure you thought I was delirious most of the time but I do remember you sitting with me and just being there for me.

You have so much potential for doing good in this world and helping people. I'm so happy that you've decided to help out more in the community centres. I hope that you too, will be able to see how amazing you are with people.

I know you had big dreams about joining the army - changing your life around, being a hero and all that. I have no doubt that you did get your shit together and that you were a hero to many people. And just because you're home now doesn't mean that you've stopped being one. You can be one right here, under a different guise. I can't think of a better uncle, or role model, for Aida and Chad, especially Chad. You know better than I do what it's like growing up as a boy in this neighbourhood. You know what it's like to get back on the right track and you can help other people do the same. You have the ability to change people's lives, Sammy. Not just on the battlefield, but also back home.

And I know that you feel lost right now, that you're back at square one. I hope that in time you will find yourself again and feel comfortable. You've been through a lot and there's nothing wrong with feeling the way that you do. Just please don't give up. I'm positive that things will get better and that you will find peace. People still need you. I still need you. You're my brother after all, and I don't want to lose you too.

I love you,

S 3

* * *

A/N: Looks like Sam Wilson shares my own atrocious journalling habits . . . aka not writing for several months on end. But he's back and hopefully on a more regular writing schedule. Read and review!


	12. Entry 10

Entry Log: 10  
Date: Monday, April 23, 2012  
Place: My very own shitty little apartment

* * *

That sneaky, little ass! I wasn't aware that other people could just write in your journal like that, even if she did technically get it for me. I have a few choice words that I'd yell at her right about now, but how can I be mad at what she wrote? She's almost got my bawling again with that sappy letter.

And really embarrassed. Because it's terrifyingly true. I was so happy to be out of the streets and I did have big dreams of being a hero. Imagined myself as the leader of my very own squadron, given the toughest missions and coming back successfully every time. Imagined myself coming back home, decorated in medals of honour and the pride and joy of everyone in the neighbour. Ha, I was so young and naïve once.

After all that's happened, after all that I've been through I just can't see anything heroic anymore. Instead of counting the successful missions, I look at the failed ones. Instead of lives rescued, I see all the ones we lost. And instead of feeling pride or accomplishment I'm filled with guilt and regret.

It's nice that Sarah still believes in me. A nice sentiment. Because I sure as hell don't. But maybe, maybe I can try and be that person that she thinks I am. Fake it 'till you make it, right?

I will write it here as a silent promise though: I will not give up. If not for myself, then for Sarah and Chad and Aida. I won't let them down. And for all the other people out there that I want to help. I have no idea where any of this is going but if I'm able to use what I'm going through to get someone else back on the right track, then I will keep going, keep fighting.

In the meantime, I've moved out of her place and found my own little apartment a few streets over. It's a rickety old building that I'm honestly worried is going to fall down when the next big breeze comes. Although given the number of drafts I can feel currently, I'd imagine the breeze would blow right through the building. I've got a lumpy mattress on what I think used to be the remains of a bed frame, a tattered couch that's more springs than cushion, a semi-functional kitchen and bathroom in that the water may or may not run depending on the mood of the pipes, and a few busted light bulbs. All in all it's quite cozy. And the rent's cheap.

Spent a few hours after lunch at the community centre getting to know the other people that work there and the programs that offer. I want to especially help out with the after school youth program and the homeless outreach. I might not be able to be of any tutoring use but I've got a sick throw for a game or two of pick-up basketball. And I would like to find that ex-SEAL and talk to him again. Or see if there are any other vets wandering around the streets. There's gotta be something else, some other option for them than adding to the homeless population.

Pizza's done so I'm going to break for dinner. I was really tempted to buy a case of beer but don't trust myself to stay out of it should I be feeling a bit down again. Soda and pizza it is then. Almost just as good.


	13. Entry 11

Entry Log: 11  
Date: Friday, April 27, 2012  
Place: Kitchen table

* * *

I think my microwave is a little dysfunctional. I somehow managed to burn my pre-made dinner on a setting of 5 minutes. So much for lasagna tonight. Fortunately the stove was in a better mood and I managed to boil some water to make pasta. I should really learn how to cook.

It's been . . . a rough week. Good in that I've spent mornings and afternoons at various community centres helping. I've enjoyed it for the most part. If I'm busy, I feel a lot better about things, about myself.

It's when I come back here that I fell like I'm still spiralling out of control. I don't know if it's the loneliness or the boredom or what, but as soon as I stop to sit down it's like wave after wave of thoughts come crashing into my brain. Thoughts of criticism, self-doubt and shame. And I begin to question myself and what I'm doing.

It makes me want to scream. I feel like I'm going crazy sometimes. Like I'm on this out-of-control roller coaster ride that keeps going faster and faster.

And those damn nightmares still haven't stopped. Almost every night I wake up suddenly, heart pounding and hands sweating. I don't remember half of them but there's a couple reoccurring ones. People's faces flash before my eyes - Riley, Sarah, Ma and Pa, my Paratrooper unit - and suddenly they're covered in blood and my hands are red too but somehow I know it's not mine and then when I try to scream for help, try to move forward to save the, I'm suddenly falling dead-stick. Falling into a hole of blackness and there's nothing stopping me . . .

I've never been afraid of falling. When they asked me where I wanted to serve I said the Air Force with zero hesitation. The sky for me represented freedom and I was always ready to try new things, test the limits. Falling was always a part of the fun, although whether in training or in the real deal there was always a parachute or mat to catch me. But even if one time there wouldn't have been, I always thought that falling was the way I'd like to go out. A last chance to hurtle through the air with no restraints. In my nightmares though as I fall, I'm filled with a sense of terror that I have never before felt in my life. The simple thought of that fear creates even more panic. It's that fear I can't stand. That feeling of utter and complete hopelessness. I felt something similar to that once and swore I would never fear it again. Yet when the nightmare comes, I wake up almost paralyzed with fear.

I tried staying up the other night, but I just feel asleep on the couch in front of the TV and had a nightmare anyway. Thinking about the next day, going to the centre and helping out calms me down a bit. It's the only thing that keeps me motivated right now because i know that I'll have a few moments of peace of mind while working.

But in the end, it's never enough. I'm always back here, dreading ever ticking second that point further into the night. Dreading that moment I fall into an exhausted sleep and all the horrors come back in full force.

Is there a way out of this? Is there really an end? A place or time of relief?


	14. Entry 12

Journal Entry: 12  
Date: Sunday, April 30, 2012  
Place: Harlem Hospital

* * *

The old lady (whose name is Rose) mentioned that she was going to visit her grandson after serving the lunch so I offered to go with her. Not quite sure why. One of those splurge decisions without much thinking.

The poor kid (Jason) is only 21. 21 and recuperating from an attempted OD because he's suffering from PTSD from his time in the army. Damn. He was awake when we got here but he didn't say word to his grandma. Just lay there with a blank look on his face, staring into the distance. Rose soon gave up trying to coax a word out of him and just sat there, holding his hand. I saw a tear trickling down her cheek and really wished I was anywhere else. How do you deal with a crying grandma? A bit later, she got up to leave but I said I would stay for a bit longer. She seemed relieved somehow and comforted. Gave me a worn and tattered old book of nursery rhymes that she used to read to Jason when he was a baby.

"I just can't seem to find the energy today, I'm sorry. I wanted to read to him again, but . . ." she said to me and slowly left the room.

Well I got nothing better to do . . .

(Two hours later). Jason's asleep now, and I swear there's a hint of a smile on his face, Visiting hours are long over but the nurses let me stay when they saw that Jason was responsive and talking to me. And damn did he talk to me. I read for a while first, just picking random nursery rhymes. I was reading Humpty Dumpty and was about to flip the page when he suddenly repeated the last line. ". . . . couldn't put Humpty Dumpty together again."

"Is that how you feel?" I asked him quietly. "Like you've been torn apart into a hundred little pieces and you just feel totally lost and unable to start picking up the pieces?"

He didn't say anything, just turned to look at me for the first time. And so I started talking. I told him random things: growing up in Harlem, some of the shit I did in the gang, Air Force boot camp, some of my missions. And I told him about Riley. Once I finished talking he told me about his time in the army. Standard stuff really. Sent out as part of a convoy escort, ambush, IED - stuff I'd heard so many times before. But hearing it from his point of view was different, hearing about his partner taken down by a sniper - single bullet that ripped apart his face, how the vehicle ahead of his and exploded and bits of charred military uniform floated down through the air. Then he asked me if I had nightmares too and I nodded, telling him about some of the ones I remembered. He shared some of his too, then asked if they ever stopped.

"I wish I had an answer for you kid, but I honestly don't," I told him. "All I know is that drugs or booze won't make them go away. You have to find the strength inside of you. And I know it's there." I gently lay my hand on his chest. "It's somewhere in here. Maybe hidden deep beneath all the bad memories and the fears and the horrors and you you have to go through all of them first, but it's there."

I had no idea what I was saying but it seemed to help. He smiled and fell asleep and now I'm sitting here, trying to understand what the hell I just said.

* * *

 **A/N:** Thanks to all those sticking with me on this story! I'm dealing with some writer's block for this one, but just rewatched Winter Soldier so hopefully I'll get some more entries written soon!


	15. Entry 13

Journal Entry: 13  
Date: Friday, May 4, 2012  
Place: Central Park, NYC

* * *

Did I just see a freaking alien space army come through a wormhole and tear the shit out of Manhattan? Yes, yes I did. I never really paid too much attention when the news talked about 'singularities' or such stuff. And I thought that whole mythical hammer thing in New Mexico was just a joke. But damn! I am not joking (and not crazy) when I say that a shitload of monster things from space just turned downtown New York into a war zone.

Nothing reached Harlem but it was kinda hard to miss a giant purple hole in the sky and scary ass dinosaurs floating down. And somehow my first response wasn't to run the hell away but to walk towards chaos. I had to walk because public transport had frozen to a standstill. By the time reached the downtown area, the wormhole had somehow disappeared and the battle was over. Not the mess though.

It's all so hauntingly familiar. Collapsed buildings and rubble everywhere. Fires, broken glass, bullet holes in everything. I thought I had left the war behind me but it looks like it followed me here. No flashbacks though, as I was standing there. As I heard the screams and crying I wasn't reminded of all the death I had already witnessed, I just wanted to help bring a sense of peace and calm back into the world. To restore what had been destroyed. Maybe that's why I found myself in the middle of this crazy shit show. Maybe there was still part of the pararescue in me as well.

I found a group of airmen that had arrived as backup and volunteered to help with the rescue and clean-up effort. It had been decided to bring all civilians to Central Park, where a makeshift triage area had been set up. I was put in charge of gathering all the names of the people that came in and coordinating where they could temporarily sit down. A lot of people had gotten separated from their family or friends or whoever they had been together with, so I also spent a large majority of my time running around trying to find people on my list.

It's almost dark now and words is that all surviving civilians have been rescued from trapped buildings or brought out of the subways. I'm exhausted. I've been on my feet since this morning and I know there's still a ton of work to be done. It's the aftermath that's always worse than the actual fighting - another side of war that most people don't understand. When the adrenaline stops, and the mind is given a moment to stop, think and process, that's when the true horrors are brought to life.

Tonight's looking like it's going to be an all-nighter for me but I'm sure once I finally collapse in my bed I'll be having nightmares of aliens and falling through wormholes. I'm trying not to focus on that. I'm trying not focus on the death and pain and loss I saw today but on the good moments. On the young boy I brought back to his crying and desperate parents and the relief on their faces. On the dazed girl I reunited with her boyfriend. And on the brave little girl who asked me ton find her mom. When I did, the girl hugged my first before running to her mother and the mother looked at me. "You're the real hero today," she said.

I'm going to hold on to that. Keep that close when the grief and guilt and regret start rolling in.

* * *

 **A/N:** Aaaand the Avengers make an appearance! (sort of anyway). This entry was super fun to write and I've got a couple of follow-ups!


	16. Entry 14

Journal Entry: 14  
Date: Saturday, May 5, 2012  
Place: Central Park, NYC

* * *

Still here, coordinating relief efforts. Though most of Manhattan is business, there are still a lot of people that lost their homes so we've been setting up temporary tent shelters with cots and sleeping bags. A mess hall of sorts has also been set up to serve food at certain times. I'm here now, eating a cold turkey sandwich and slurping down lukewarm coffee. I think I got about a 30 minute's nap worth of sleep last night. Things are only getting crazier, not settling down, as all reserve troops have been called in to start with the clean up.

The city is still in a state of shock. All trains and buses have been cancelled - since there's a giant alien dinosaur rotting in Grand Central Station. Those creatures reek like hell! Hazmat teams have been sweeping the streets making sure they're not toxic or anything.

The worst is that nobody quite knows what the hell actually happened. Word is heroes of the day are this group called the Avengers. A lot of people I talked to mentioned seeing Captain America and Iron Man. Both of those I know. Iron Man is a legend in the army. Everybody knows the Stark name from the classic Stark Industries label that's been on all the US army's weapons for as long as anyone can remember. Apparently the original Iron Man was born in some Taliban cave in Afghanistan. The guy's got guts, I'll give him that. There's also weird stories about a giant green monster and some viking god of lightning. I mean, hell, why not? At this rate I think people are about to believe anything.

Since the battle though, nobody has heard shit about these so-called 'superheroes' so the rumours keep spreading around. Some one-eyed black guy from a secret security government agency gave a press conference this morning but it was all kind of vague. Something about a guy from another planet with a space army and a portal opened by a cosmic cube of infinite power and the Avengers. Sounds a lot like the typical government conspiracy bullshit but what do I know? I'm just a guy on the streets trying to come to grips with the fact that Manhattan has somehow been destroyed. And trying to clean up all the shit that the 'superheroes' left behind.

I can't imagine the trauma that people will have to face once the dust finally settles and the rebuilding starts. It's easy to rebuild buildings - brick after brick in a clear and logical manner. But how do you rebuild a mind that's been tor apart by horrors to great to want to talk about? How do you even try to realize a 'normal' life again after that word no longer has a definition?

I guess life really isn't about trying to avoid disaster, it's about coming to terms with how you face it. I mean who could ever have imagined something like this happening in New York? This isn't Bagdad or Kandahar. This is New York City damn it! Guess safe is a term of reliability. And the privileged Western world doesn't have a monopoly on peace and stability.

I suppose that can apply to the some of the shit I've been trying to deal with mentally. There's no point running from my feelings or dying to drown them. Shit happened, and this is the reality of my life. No use trying to hide it. I can accept it and try to move forward with my life or be caught in a downward spiral with no end for the rest of my life. Easier said than done though.


	17. Entry 15

Journal Entry: 15  
Date: Sunday, May 6, 2012  
Place: Central Park, NYC

* * *

Sarah and the kids came down today to help out as well. The kids though it was a grand adventure and I saw them playing 'Avengers vs aliens' with some other kids running around. I can't decide whether it's encouraging or disheartening that they don't see the awful side of what happened and only pay attention to the heroics.

Already what happened on Friday is being dubbed as the 'Battle of New York' and the Avengers are called the saviours of the city. Despite the fact that nobody still knows who the hell they all are and where they came from.

But such is the power of the media and the gullibility of people to believe what they're being told at face value. I can understand the need to focus on the positive aspects of humanity after the horrors of what happened. The worse a situation is, the more people tend to glorify mundane things for the simple reason that they need something to believe in. I've seen a soldier called a war hero because he happened to be taking a piss on the side of the road while to rest of his entire platoon got blown up by some IED's.

But I can't help but question it all. I've seen the worst kinds of atrocities committed in the army and in the darkest alleys of Harlem. Hell, I've even participated in my fair share of not exactly commendable actions. There is no humanity in war. Yes, there are times when a battle needs to be fought, but don't give me the bullshit about being a hero. Killing somebody for whatever reason may give you validity is not heroic. It's either doing your job because you're paid for it or you're just a really confused or plain terrible person.

You wonder why so many soldiers end up messed up like shit? It's no wonder when all they're told is that serving their country is the most noble and heroic thing they can do and then they end up finding themselves in the middle of the worse hell hole on earth, surrounded by blown up bodies and scattered limbs as they hold a gun in their and and do their best to add to the carnage in order to avoid becoming a permanent fixture of it as well.

I think any sane and right-minded person is bound to have nightmares or some other effect if they go though such a traumatic experience. But the fact that nothing is done to properly prepare anybody is what really gets me.

It's such a double standard. They exaggerate all the positive things and then ignore or downplay the negative after effects. I'm not trying to rant against the army. Like I said, I was a damn proud airman and there were a lot of good moments. But when things go bad, when it all goes to shit, they need to be there for you too.

Same here. People can't just gloss over all the innocent people that died or the ones who lost heir homes. I'm not saying the Avengers did anything wrong. But they need to come forward and explain their actions and take responsibility for them. They owe that to the people of New York whose lives were just destroyed simply because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Until then, for me, they will just be a group of people who stood up and took action, but that does not give them the label of 'superhero' in my mind.


	18. Entry 16

Journal Entry: 16  
Date: Wednesday, May 9, 2012  
Place: Bed

* * *

It's 3:17am according to my phone. Another nightmare. They don't come every night but often enough. Makes me wonder what nightmares actually are. Are they just a replay of all the horrible shit you've seen and been through? Is it the brain's way of processing these things? Is it just another cruel torture device of karma? I am being way too philosophical at this unnatural hour of the night. Or maybe it's the natural hour for philosophy . . . they do say most geniuses are night people. Damn, there I go again. I really wish there was just some kind of off-switch for thinking. That would help a lot.

But of course there isn't. Instead I sit here, heart racing, and sweating as if I've just run a marathon. I don't remember what I was dreaming about but I'm really hoping I didn't shout or scream out loud. Though considering the only other person who lives on this floor is an old lady who I'm pretty sure is half-deaf, I probably don't have to worry too much.

In the meantime I've got to try and find a way to work through these nightmares. Maybe next time someone like Jason asks me if they ever stop, I can reply with a much more positive answer. I've started listening to music, whenever I wake up suddenly in the middle of night and can't fall back asleep. It's calming, and if I focus on the sounds and the lyrics the awful images flashing through my head eventually disappear.

My current favourite is Marvin Gaye. The guy is a soul and Motown legend. The score that he composed for 'Trouble Man' is a classic. And great for falling asleep - some mellow R&B sounds with a more contemporary twist. I've got the single playing right now on repeat, humming along quietly to the words. Humming because I can't sing shit. One drunken night with my army boys proved that loud and clear.

"Come up hard, baby / I had to fight / Took care of my business / Wit' all my might"

Isn't that just the story of everyone's life? Don't we all just keep going from day to day trying to keep our heads up and take care of things? Is there really anything else that we can do? I'm not ready to give up - I've learned that much about myself, so what's left but to keep fighting? Just seems really pointless half the time because I don't know what I'm fighting for but I don't have any other option but to keep going.

"I come up hard, awful hard / I had to win / Then start all over / And win again"

The question I ask myself is whether there is a 'win' situation in all of this. I feel like I'm starting to get my life back together but for what? Writing semi-philosophical shit in the middle of the night is really not a very motivating reason.

At least my heart is beating at a regular rhythm again. So maybe the nightmares will continue but music and writing seem to be decent countermeasures. It's almost funny, in a sad way - here I am, in the prime of my life, giving myself therapy and trying to pick up the pieces of my life. There's no way I would have ever called this happening. Hell naw. But then who would? Just another one of life's curveballs.


	19. Entry 17

Entry Log: 17  
Date: Saturday, May 12, 2012  
Place: Couch

* * *

So I think mentioned that the only other person living on this floor is a presumably half-deaf old lady, Well I can now confirm that she most definitely is half-deaf and also half-blind. And way too stubborn to move into a nursing home so she continues to teeter-totter around the area. Margery is her name and she's got this horrible affinity to bright colours and floral patterns. The kind that should definitely not be worn as clothing.

So anyways, I'm sitting on my couch after a supper (I've mastered cooking pasta and heating up sauce in a jar) watching TV when there's a knock on my door. There's Margery, wearing these atrocious orange pants with a purple, white, orange and green flowery blouse. I had to momentarily close my eyes because of the glare. Good thing she can hardly see through those thick glasses of hers so she didn't notice.

"Have you seen my poor little pumpkin? He's gone missing and I'm just worried sick about him. He normally never goes out on his own so I don't know what came into him. He's such a good little boy and I would hate for something terrible to happen to him," she said as I just kinda stared at her. Last time I checked pumpkins didn't sprout legs and walk away. She probably ate it and forgot about it.

"Your pumpkin?"

"Yes, young man. My dear little pumpkin noodles has disappeared."

I was even more confused at this point. "Your pumpkin or your noodles? Like your supper has disappeared?"

"Well my supper did disappear too so I assumed he ate it and then went into hiding because he felt bad. But he hasn't come out yet and I'm afraid he's gone off somewhere or gone lost and I'm just so terribly worried about him."

"Your pumpkin ate your supper?"

"Oh no, silly. My cat ate my supper. At least I think he did. He's normally really well behaved but occasionally he can be a bit mischievous."

"So to get this straight. Your cat has disappeared."

"Of course, that's what I said. I've had him for many years now. I think I got him back when bla bla bla my niece's cousin's boyfriend's sister bla bla bla good kitty bla bla bla bad kitty bla bla bla soft kitty bla bla bla . . . ." I'd turned sideways so I was leaning against the doorpost and was able to see the TV screen. Her constant blabbing was a little distracting but I managed to zone her out pretty quickly.

After a bit I suddenly noticed that it had gone quiet and that Margery was staring at me with this expectant look on her face. I just kind of umm'ed.

"Oh thank you! I'm sure he's not far and that you'll be able to find him quickly."

So apparently I'd just agreed to go find that damn cat of hers. At least I think it was a cat; I still wasn't quite 100% sure. Which resulted in an hour and a half of me wandering around her apartment and then mine as well (because Margery thought he might have snuck in somehow) and then I even climbed out onto the balcony and the roof. No cat. The poor old lady was looking quite frazzled at this point (and so was I) and I was starting to feel bad for her so I offered to go outside and look around as well. As soon as we came out of the building, we heard a pitiful meow and there was that stupid ass cat, sitting very smugly in a tree. Obviously he wouldn't come down so I had to scramble my way up this tree and around the branches.

End result is that I'm back on my couch, with two scratches down the entire length of my forearm and my shirt covered in cat hair. I swear that there's some kind of secret old lady associations and they're out to get me. And I hate cats.

* * *

 **A/N:** Margery is basically how I envision myself at that age. I mean, who wouldn't want Sam as a next-door-neighbour?


	20. Entry 18

Entry Log: 18  
Date: Friday, May 18, 2012  
Place: Bed

* * *

Haven't written in a bit but that's because things have settled down into a routine more or less. I'm . . . coping . . . I guess is the right word. Not super positive but not exactly negative either. It's always a bit up and down so I just try and stay as calm as possible and just try and get through each individual day at a time.

It feels kinda weird getting up every day as if going to work but then you realize that you're actually just a volunteer. Kinda nice though because it takes a lot of stress and pressure off me. I'm basically at the centres on my own terms and can come and go whenever I want. It's a huge change from the army where everything was carefully scheduled by the minute and I always had someone telling me where to go and what to do. I can't say I miss it much. I can't shake the habit of constantly looking at my watch but it's a great feeling when time no longer has such an oppressing influence on my day.

I still try and have a regular schedule just for consistency's sake. And for giving me a reason to get out of bed in the morning. Mornings are often bad. I wake up and the day already seems miserable even though it hasn't even begun yet. It's even worse when I didn't sleep through the night because of a nightmare. Once I'm up it starts to get easier. If it's nice out I go for a run and then I try and be at one of the community centres by 10. There's always something to be done so the day goes by pretty fast.

I'm surprised at how much I'm enjoying working at the community centres. Somehow I also figured you had to be someone important or do something heroic in order to deserve any sort of gratitude. But with the simplest things that I do here, I get a soft thank-you and a smile, often times a cup of coffee from one of the older ladies that also volunteer. I'm always tempted to shrug aside their thanks, in fact I often do. How can a guy like me, with all the shit I've done, and the shit I'm still working through, deserve a simply thank-you. I don't. Hell, I'd bet all those gentle old grandmas would faint when they heard some of my stories. But it's still nice, and somehow if I think of their kind words and gestures, it helps me get through the harder times.

Evenings are alright most of the time. I'm generally in a good mood after coming home from the centres and then make some supper, watch TV, maybe clean a bit. Sometimes I head over to Sarah's and eat with her family. Those are the best days. Chad and Aida always manage to put a smile on my face.

It's the nights that are the worst. Nightmares are becoming more irregular, for which I'm extremely grateful, but I still have a hard time falling asleep. I lie here in bed, thinking about things, an the thoughts just create a whirlwind in my brain that makes it hard to come to my senses and sleep. Because the things that haunt my mind aren't just nice and cozy problems like 'What am I going to wear tomorrow?'. No, it's heavy shit like 'What the hell am I actually doing here?' and 'What am I supposed to be doing with this freakshow that is my life?' Questions that I obviously have no answer to, yet that continue to torture me on a daily basis.

Will I ever have an answer? Or is this supposed to just keep going and going until my existence just kinda stops? This existence of a lost and struggling guy, filling up his time with volunteering, occasional babysitting of his niece and nephew, and trying not to wake up screaming?


	21. Entry 19

Entry Log: 19  
Date: Saturday, May 19, 2012  
Place: Kitchen table

* * *

Was walking home from the grocery store. I mean, something completely normal, dressed in jeans and a loose hoodie, nothing out of the ordinary . . . and then, shit my hand is shaking so badly. Crazy to think that a flashback to my old life will get me so hard, like a punch in the gut I wasn't expecting.

I was taking a shortcut through to my apartment from the grocery store when a few gang bangers jumped me. Or tried to. I may not be going through the grueling Air Force training every day, but I'm still in shape. Guess they thought I was some easy target, and they almost got to me. But it wasn't the fists. It was those eyes . . . damn, it was like looking in a mirror.

Dark eyes. Scared, so scared, but filled with the kind of survival spirit that comes from somebody long used to always getting the shit end of things from society and everybody around him. Eyes looking for a way out, eyes searching for someone to reach out and help him, instead of pushing him back down in the ground and spitting on him. Eyes filled with pain and hopelessness.

He was just a kid, no older than 15. No older than I was when I got through initiation and got my first tat. He was the one to throw the first punch, ready to prove himself in order to finally be accepted somewhere. I saw the blow coming and didn't even move. I don't even remember feeling the punch, but I remember dropping my grocery bags. All I could see, all I could think of, was all the people I met with a similar punch. All the people I'd beat up in order to fit in with the gang.

I'd already mentioned I was a fighter at school. Didn't take long for the neighborhood gang to take notice of me and start coming around after school. After Ma gave some members a piece of her mind, they stayed away from the house, but they'd appear outside of school. Each day I'd stay with them a bit longer until I no longer came home. Until they became my new home.

Pa had been gone for several years then and even Ma couldn't keep me in line, though bless her heart she tried. I think she knew that I wasn't really given a chance. What's a black kid supposed to do? Either you're in a gang or you're dead. She never gave up praying for me, and I sometimes think that was the only thing that got me out. That and a cop who was actually trying to make a difference rather than use his gun to solve the world's problems. He arrested me after a corner store robbery went bad and a night in that shitty, dirty cell as I almost froze to death finally gave me some perspective.

A few blocked punches and my famous cold-faced death glare was enough to make the punks have second thoughts and slowly back off. I slowly gathered my spilled groceries and continued on my way. But the whole time those eyes were staring at me. Wondering if there was hope for him as well. Wondering if there was a life outside of the drug-riddled back alleys that had become his home.

I asked myself those same questions that cold-ass night in a jail cell, beside a couple of drunks that stank worse than the prison. I didn't have the answer back then, sometimes I feel like I still don't, but hell, I was determined to find them then, and I still am today.


	22. Entry 20

Entry Log: 20  
Date: Sunday, May 20, 2012  
Place: Margery's couch

* * *

Came home to find the fattest and most hideous cat ever meowing piteously on the landing of my room. I tried to knock on my neighbour's door but eventually gave up because she really is quite deaf and just barged in, (gently) kicking the cat in as well. He hissed at me, but I just hissed back. So what if he doesn't like me. Feeling's mutual.

o here I am on Margery's couch which looked like her poor old grandmother owned it back in the 1800s. It is literally impossible to get comfortable on this thing, but the empty pie plate on the table beside me quite enough makes up for the horrible couch. I may have polished off several pieces, because Margery can make a mean pie! Almost as good as Ma's, which is the highest compliment I could give someone.

I really wasn't planning on sticking around. In fact, I'd hoped to dump the cat and hightail it back into my own apartment but though she may be deaf, Margery is unfortunately not blind, and she caught sight of me before I could escape. And so I stayed, listened to her chatter on (and repeating herself about three times), helping her with dishes and then joining her in the living room. The radio is on to some retro station and the click clack of Margery's knitting needles is actually quite pleasant company on this Sunday afternoon.

I made the mistake of asking her what she's making. Apparently a sweater for her "cuddly ball of fluff-fluff". By which I assume she means her cat who's currently tearing the curtains to shreds with his evil little claws and staring at me like I'm death. That damn cat is so huge, it's fat could keep all the cats in this city warm.

"What about your family, young man?" she asked me, and I began to tell her about Aida and Chad, Sarah and DeWan. I don't think she actually heard much of it, but she nodded at the appropriate times and kept her needles clicking in a steady rhythm.

She told me about her only son and three grandkids that she used to babysit before they moved to the West Coast. I was in the middle of chuckling at one of her stories, when it just kinda caught in my throat and my eyes started welling up with tears. It was hard to remember the last time I felt so comfortable, so at ease with someone that wasn't family. Riley came to mind, and the laughter quickly died.

Margery kept talking as I struggled to regain my composure. No way was I going to break down in front of that cat. A slice of pie later, all was good again, and now it's back to listening to the scratchy radio.

Funny how I've settled into the couch. I don't even feel the springs digging into my back and ass anymore. And as embarrassing as it might me to admit that basically my only friend is this lonely old lady with really terrible taste in interior design but amazing pie, I don't really care. Because this is the first Sunday, the first day, in a really long time that I actually felt happy. Truly content to just be. And that is a gift that I will cherish forever.

I'm even willing to overlook the cat. As long as he stays away from me, we should be able to function with polite coolness.

* * *

 **A/N:** I apologize sincerely to all my current followers for making you wait so long for an update. I'm having terrible writer's block with this fic but I'm determined to finish it. I will also tend to update several chapters at once since I write more than one entry at a time, so always check to see that you haven't missed one.


	23. Entry 21

Entry Log: 21  
Monday, May 28, 2012  
Place: Couch

* * *

Damn, man. My head is pounding so hard I can barely think let alone write. My throat is dry, I probably stink ti high heaven because I have't showered in a while, and my apartment is an absolute mess. If it sounds like I'm having a hell of a hangover, well, that's because I am. The last thing I remember is passing out around Thursday-is after finishing off another bottle of really cheap vodka. There were probably several more after because it's now Monday and my place looks like a college frat party went down over the weekend.

I really don't know what happened. I was on my way back home last Monday feeling like the worst piece of shit and somehow I ended up at my apartment after having bought out the corner store down the block of beer an vodka. The rest is a vague blur.

Now I still feel like shit and I smell like shit and my place smells like shit and I just can't. I can't. My hand is shaking so hard I can barely write and my eyes are blurring up for no good reason. I just want it to stop because I'm done and I don't want to continue. Everything just hurts. Life hurts and I'm so done with it.

Damn.

Had to take 5 because I literally couldn't write anymore. After a long drink of water and sticking my head under the sink I'm slightly able to function again. Slightly. My head still feels like a tank rolled over it, but at least nothing is spinning anymore. Delivery should be on it's way as well with two large pizzas because I don't remember the last time I ate.

There wasn't even a trigger or anything. I just felt like shit, like nothing even mattered anymore. And there was nothing left in me that was able to stand and fight. It was a complete and total relapse. Right after feeling so great about everything, life decided to kick me in the balls and bring me down lower than I've been before. The last time I drank this much I at least had a reason. A shitty ass reason, sure, but still a reason. Now I just rank because I could, and because there was nothing stopping me.

The part that scares me the most is not knowing if this is going got be a repeat occurrence. Hell, I'd actually thought I was going straight. That my life was on track again. Apparently not. Apparently life can be going great, only to wake up a week later in the middle of an alcohol binge with no idea what happened. And I wonder why I'm feeling so depressed. Well no shit. I mean what's the point, when I have zero control over anything.

I always used to pity people with an alcohol problem. Shake my head at their weakness. At their lack of willingness to try and pick up the pieces of their lives. And now I find myself waking up n a mess of empty bottles after having sworn to quit drinking and get my shit together. A sobering thought.

Well I'm up and awake now, feeling like hell but the one thing nobody ever said about Sam Wilson was that he was a quitter. So I'll get up again. Pick myself up and keep going. Attempt whatever out of I don't want to know how many to give up and give a shit.


	24. Entry 22

Entry Log: 22  
Date: Tuesday, May 29, 2012  
Place: Couch

* * *

I spent most of the rest of yesterday just wandering around New York. Walked around the back alleys of Harlem for a bit before taking the subway to Manhattan. After a ridiculously expensive coffee from this hipster cafe that was surprisingly good, I ended up in Central Park.

It's funny, the people you see walking by. Men in business suits chatting away on their cellphones. Alternative-dressed hippies doing their daily yoga routines. A bunch of tourists walking around with cameras glued to their eyes. I saw an old man walking haphazardly beneath the trees as he talked to himself, dressed in a tattered coat looked like he'd worn it for the past several years without taking it off. I saw a young kid exchange a baggie of coke for a fistful of cash before reaching into his pockets and snorting a pinch himself.

But it wasn't just the apparent rejects of society that had their issues. A middle-aged man dressed in brandname clothes and an expensive watch on his wrist sat down on a bench side me. He was on the phone with his lawyer who apparently had just informed him he had lost the custody battle over his kids. After hanging up, he took out a hip flask and downed it to the last dregs. Across from me, a young teenage girl was scrolling through something on her phone, barely able to keep in the tears. She took a small knife from her wrist and drew it across her lower forearm, adding to the collection of lines that were already there.

We all have our demons. It remains to be seen where the angels are.

I spoke to Sarah about it later last night when I was back home. She'd called to ask how I was doing and even though I glossed over what had happened, she decided to come over anyway with some food and then help clean up. I'd shared some of my observations and thoughts when she took a deep breath and said, "Yeah, I know all about regrets and the hopeless depression that follows."

"I'd met a guy in my last year at college. He was from a rich family, and I thought 'Here's my ticket out of poverty'. But then near the end of the second semester I found out I was pregnant and he dumped me, saying that I wasn't the right kind of girl for him and a kid would ruin his reputation. I didn't know what to do, so I went to an abortion clinic. It was the worst night of my life and the weeks that followed were even worse. I had planning on moving as far away from Harlem as possible right after graduation, but that one decision and brought me back home because I needed a place to cry and recover. And that's when I met DeWan. And now I have exactly the life that I was trying to get away from, but I wouldn't change it for the world."

"Why not?" I asked.

"Because I know that am loved and needed here. I have found my purpose and I'm happy. I couldn't ask for more."

Such simple words, but spoken with heartfelt conviction. I admired my sister more than ever. She had lost something precious, but she had continued on and regained her self worth. Now she had a loving husband, two amazing kids, a job and a house. Plus a good-for-nothing brother because why not?


	25. Entry 23

Entry Log: 23  
Date: Thursday, May 31, 2012  
Place: Cemetery, Harlem Baptist Church

* * *

The grey skies match my mood and somehow it feels appropriate sitting here in front of Ma's grave. No tears. In fact I'm not feeling much at all. The past few days I've continued to clean up my apartment to give myself the feeling that I had least something under control. Even bought a new couch, some curtains and a carpet for the living room. Sarah's come over every night. I appreciate the food that she brings, but I know she's just coming to check if there's any more alcohol lying around. There isn't. I don't want a repeat of last week.

She asked me last night if I'd ever been to visit Ma. I shook my head. Cemeteries had always depressed me. And if I were to be truly honest, I was ashamed of Ma seeing me like this.

"You should go by her grave, Sammy," Sarah told me anyway, ignoring all my fake excuses. "It might do you some good."

So here I am, sitting on a weatherworn bench beneath a stunted and gnarled apple tree in the small plot of land hind Harlem's Baptist Church. A tall wooden fence surrounds the lot, not quite keeping out all the street sounds but providing a bit of privacy. The plain gravestone, rounded a the top, made of a light grey marble with faint white streaks running through it, was placed beside another gravestone. I refused to even look at that one, keeping my eyes on the letters carved into Ma's final resting place.

In Loving Memory  
Darlene Wilson  
An angel on earth; a ray of home amidst the darkness.

The whole neighbourhood had come together to pay for the gravestone and there hadn't been enough room in the church for everyone who had come for the funeral service. I wasn't there. I don't really remember what I was doing that day, but it involved stuff for the gang that Ma would never have approved of. And then drinking away my grief and shame because I knew exactly what she would've said.

"Doing the right thing isn't easy, Samuel. But your Pa and I taught you to recognise right form wrong and the good Lord gave yo the heart and strength to do it."

I knew I'd made a lot of wrong choices. Hell, I was still making them. But somehow, as I'm sitting here and imaging her in our kitchen in her faded apron I know that she wouldn't be disappointed in me. That's the kind of woman she was. She never gave up - would continue to fire you and love you again and again no matter what. She had faith in people, in humanity, almost as strong as her faith in God.

Somehow I've lost hat hope, but I know what she would say to that too. "It's easy to focus on the bad stuff, because that's what's always visible. The trick is to see past that, to dig a little deeper until you find the good stuff. It's there, in everyone, just not always obvious at first."

For Ma's sake, I'll try and do it. See the good in people. Stop letting all the bad shit keep getting to me. And maybe, eventually, I'll be able to see the good in myself fas well.


	26. Entry 24

Entry Log: 24  
Date: Friday, June 1, 2012  
Place: Cemetery

* * *

I still remember that day. I was almost 15 and in class on a rare occasion when we heard the all-too familiar sounds of gunfire. I didn't think anything of it. I had half a foot in the gang life already and gun fights were a part of a casual afternoon after school. It wasn't until I got home and saw the teary-eyed people gathered on our front lawn and the the flowers on the porch that I realized that those gunshots had suddenly become very personal.

Pa was your typical shout-your-sermon-from-the-pulpit preacher. If people couldn't be bothered to show up to church on Sunday mornings, he just made sure the entire neighbourhood heard the sermon anyway. Everyone in Harlem knew Pastor Paul Wilson. He was an imposing figure with an even more imposing voice. Hard to miss. He wasn't just well-known though, he was also respected and loved, and from his young son growing up in his great shadow - feared.

He lived as he preached, a rare exception in pastors these days. That day he was in the middle of the gunfight trying to stop two warring gangs in a turf war and protect the innocent bystanders caught in between. It was a stray bullet, I heard later. Ricocheted off a metal hydro pole after some young hothead was too quick on the trigger. Hit him in the neck, right through the artery. He was always ready to give absolute everything to keep the peace and that day he gave his life.

The two gang leaders came together to pay for the gravestone and the entire funeral costs. They were at the funeral too. Probably the first time those two had every gone anywhere without carrying weapon. Now, there's an undeclared truce every Sunday afternoon in the neighbourhood. And the church has become neutral ground where any gang member can come and issues can be resolve without a shooting match.

That was Pa to everyone else: a hero, working miracles even after his death. I always felt cheated. There was nothing stopping me from putting my other foot into the gang life after he was gone. Nothing stopping me from going from skipping classes to becoming a dropout. I hated him for that. Blamed him for years for putting his own life on the line instead of thinking o this family who still needed him. I began to understand him a little better once I'd joined the army and learned what it meant to serve. To dedicate yourself to a cause you believed in.

That was always the secret to Pa's confidence and courage. He knew exactly who he was because his faith gave him his identity and purpose. Me? Oh, there might be a God out there, but it's never meant anything. I've dragged my own ass through life and will continue to do so. I've been a gang member. I've been military. I've been a miserable drunk not going anywhere. I have no idea who I am. How do you face your Pa like that?/

I guess, in a way he knew that I was the type of person who learns from experience, in doing and trying it myself. He never tried to force me to be someone else, just tried to help find myself and be successful.

"Everyone has their own path to follow," was one of his favourite sayings. "Each person has their own, unique story." Maybe he'd be able to see something special in my own journey so far. It's a nice thought.

* * *

 **A/N:** A huge thanks to all my dear readers, especially my latest followers! I'd love to hear some of your feedback if you have a moment to write a review.


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